


Still

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera knows Yamamoto is home the moment he opens the front door." Gokudera finds affection comes more easily with a little maturity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still

Gokudera knows Yamamoto is home the moment he opens the front door.

There are a vast number of ways he could have determined this. The shoes kicked off none-too-neatly by the front door offer a suggestion, for example, the murmur of the television falling into the rhythm of sports commentary another; the fact that Gokudera’s key turned too-easily in the lock could have done it, or the sight of the sleeve of the jacket he can see tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair might have tipped him off. But mostly it’s that the air feels warmer, the surroundings softer, everything going comfortable and soothing even before Gokudera has his shoes off.

He takes his time at the front door, as he always does, unlacing his shoes and setting them aside next to Yamamoto’s far less tidy pair. His jacket slides off his shoulders with practiced grace, is swung around to be draped over a hanger, and he’s just starting to loosen his tie when Yamamoto apparently runs out of patience and calls “Hayato?” from the other room.

“Be there in a sec,” Gokudera offers back with all the growl and none of the irritation of his youth. He can hear Yamamoto’s bubble of laughter, can feel himself smiling as he strips the weight of his tie away from his collar, and then he’s draping it around the hanger with his jacket and turning to head for the living room as he works the top button of his shirt free.

Yamamoto is lounging over the couch, the space-filling boneless slouch he has never outgrown; in ten years he has only become bigger, broader across the shoulders and a little longer in his legs, until now when Gokudera comes to stand behind the furniture and look down anyone reasonable would think there’s not enough remaining space for another full-grown man.

Of course, they both know better.

“You’re home,” Yamamoto says, a smile breaking over his face to turn him young and breathlessly in love again. It’s more contagious now than Gokudera used to find it, or maybe it’s that he doesn’t try to resist to urge to echo it anymore; he’s leaning in closer instead, tipping over the back of the couch as he fits a bracing hand in just over Yamamoto’s shoulder.

“I am,” he says, as deadpan as he can manage as he’s toppling over the barrier in a tumble of limbs made graceful by experience. “What was your first hint?”

“Mm,” Yamamoto hums, twisting his arm out from under Gokudera’s chest so he can drape it across the other’s back instead. Gokudera knows what’s coming, the tug at his shirt and the slide of silky fabric over itself, and then there are sword-callused fingers fitting against the top edge of his belt and Yamamoto is sighing satisfaction into his hair.

“Idiot,” Gokudera says without rancor, any edge to the word dulled years ago and made as soft as an endearment around the curve of his smile. He lets the support of his arm go to drop himself against Yamamoto’s chest, brings his fingers sliding down to the open drag of the other’s white collar. His fingers fit inside the gap left by the top two undone buttons, tug sideways until he can slide his touch out over the dip of the other’s collarbone.

“You have been indecent all day,” he says to the soft skin just under Yamamoto’s ear, the spot that always makes the other shudder and gasp pleasure at the heat. “One of these days I’m going to bring you into my office and teach you better.”

“Wouldn’t mind,” Yamamoto purrs against his hair, his hips rocking up slightly as his fingers hook just inside the line of Gokudera’s belt. Gokudera grins sharp for a moment, ducks in closer to fit his lips against the faint taste of salt that has collected on the curve of Yamamoto’s throat.

“Ah,” Yamamoto offers, his other hand coming up to ghost against Gokudera’s shoulder. Gokudera kisses his skin again, parts his lips to lick at the motion of his swallow, and Yamamoto groans, a faint noise low enough in his chest Gokudera can feel the rumble. “Do you want to move to the bedroom?”

“Hm,” Gokudera hums, considering the possibility for a few seconds. It’s certainly tempting, with Yamamoto going half-hard against the thigh he has fitting between the other’s legs and the flutter of Yamamoto’s pulse coming faster under his lips. But they have hours yet in the evening, and he’s comfortable where he is, and so: “No,” he decides, pressing another kiss to that same spot under Yamamoto’s ear. “Later, maybe.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, compliance easy on his lips, and Gokudera lifts his head to catch the other’s mouth for one more moment of friction before he slides down by a few inches to fit his head under Yamamoto’s chin, just atop those opened buttons. He can hear the steady thud of the other’s heartbeat under his ear, the adrenaline of flirting giving way the sedate thrum of comfort, like Gokudera’s weight is more reassurance than burden.

“What are you watching?” Gokudera asks as Yamamoto’s fingers slide up along his spine, stroke unconscious affection out over his skin. He reciprocates in kind, sliding his palm to curl just against the back of Yamamoto’s neck like he’s holding him steady, lets the soft of the other’s hair whisper against his skin.

“Baseball,” Yamamoto says, totally needlessly; after spending the better part of middle school and all of high school in the bleachers for Yamamoto’s games, Gokudera at least has the ability to recognize the sport in question without being told.

“ _Really_ ,” he drawls, sarcasm turning the word into gentle teasing. That makes Yamamoto laugh, the sound purring through the support of his chest, and Gokudera smiles, shuts his eyes and turns his head in closer to the other. “Tell me about what’s happening.”

He doesn’t really care about the details. Yamamoto tends to leave official vocabulary behind when he tries to describe baseball games, which makes his explanations incomprehensible for anyone not fluent in his particular variety of sound effects and vague hand gestures. But he likes talking about baseball, and Gokudera likes to hear the smile in his voice, likes to let the pattern of his speech wash away the tension he habitually carries in his shoulders.

Gokudera’s pretty sure Yamamoto knows why he asks, that the question is just an excuse to listen to the sound of his voice, to mark out the pattern of his speech by his heartbeat. But Yamamoto still smiles, the expression framing his words into almost-laughter, and when his fingers stroke Gokudera’s hair back from his features Gokudera turns his head up to kiss the inside of his wrist, the affection as easy as it is sincere.


End file.
